have thought it of them. Prayers on the Saturday morning were marked by no unusual features. There was, indeed, a stir of excitement when he came to the edge of the daïs, and cleared his throat as a preliminary to making an announcement. Now for it, thought the school.
This was the announcement.
"There has been an outbreak of chicken-pox in the town. All streets except the High Street will in consequence be out of bounds till further notice."
He then gave the nod of dismissal.
The school streamed downstairs, marvelling.
The less astute of the picnickers, unmindful of the homely proverb about hallooing before leaving the wood, were openly exulting. It seemed plain to them that the headmaster, baffled by the magnitude of the thing, had resolved to pursue the safe course of ignoring it altogether. To lie low is always a shrewd piece of tactics, and there seemed no reason why the Head should not have decided on it in the present instance.
Neville-Smith was among these premature rejoicers.
"I say," he chuckled, overtaking Wyatt in the cloisters, "this is all right, isn't it! He's funked it. I thought he would. Finds the job too big to tackle."
Wyatt was damping.
"My dear chap," he said, "it's not over yet by a long chalk. It hasn't started yet."
"What do you mean? Why didn't he say anything about it in Hall, then?"
"Why should he? Have you ever had tick at a shop?"
"Of course I have. What do you mean? Why?"
"Well, they didn't send in the bill right away. But it came all right."
"Do you think he's going to do something then?"
"Rather. You wait."
Wyatt was right.
Between ten and eleven on Wednesdays and Saturdays old Bates, the school sergeant, used to copy out the
